


A Treasure Worth Dying For

by aenwoedbeannaa



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22087609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aenwoedbeannaa/pseuds/aenwoedbeannaa
Summary: A collection of one-shots of Geralt and Yennefer being Geralt and Yennefer. I've taken inspiration from scenes or mentioned scenes in Time of Contempt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 11
Kudos: 108





	1. Apologies

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Geralt x Yennefer 
> 
> Spoilers: Spoiler for Netflix S1.6, Time of Contempt, and possibly Season 2 of the Netflix show (?). 
> 
> Warning: Rating Mature for eventual smut.

**Pairing:** Geralt x Yennefer 

**Spoilers:** Spoiler for Netflix S1.6, _Time of Contempt,_ and possibly Season 2 of the Netflix show (?). 

**Note:** There is a startling lack of Geralt x Yen, and as I would die for them, I had to do something about it. I post all of my fics to my tumblr first, so you can check them all out **[here](https://aenwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/) **if you are interested. 

**Summary:** For those that have read Blood of Elves—I think we all know that there are some important scenes missing. So, here we are. Basically, each part of this story will be a one-shot based off of something in the books. Nothing too crazy. But anyways – I hope you enjoy.

> _Childishly simple,’ said Dandelion, finding an apple in the grass, wiping it on his trousers and examining it critically._
> 
> _‘He’s asking her to forgive him for his various foolish words and deeds. He’s apologizing to her for his impatience, for his lack of faith and hope, for his obstinacy, doggedness._
> 
> _For his sulking and posing; which are unworthy of a man. He’s apologizing to her for things he didn’t understand and for things he hadn’t wanted to understand—_
> 
> _He’s apologizing for things he’s only now understood.’_
> 
> \--Andrzej Sapkowski, _Time of Contempt_
> 
>   
> 

Geralt had replayed this moment over and over in his head. He had thought up thousands of things that he could say to her; thousands of things he _should_ say to her. And yet, now that they were here, together, it was as if every single one of those words had evaporated – gone from his head like a wisp of smoke from a dampened fire. 

“Yennefer.” It was the only word that he managed to choke out, and it did not come without much effort. His eyes were wide, desperate, and full of emotion that he kept hidden by looking down at his boots, standing behind her – the raven-haired Sorceress that consumed so many of his thoughts.

“Geralt.” Yennefer’s lips barely moved, but he heard her. The words were short and clipped, but from his place standing just behind her, he could see how her beautiful hands shook slightly as she plucked one leaf from the tree and then another. Silence settled once again as her hand reached to toy with the obsidian star hanging from the choker around her neck.

He wanted so badly to look up at her, to look into those violet eyes and try to figure out what she was thinking. Of course, there was a chance that she was reading his mind right now – she had a habit of doing that – but he could care less at the present moment. Maybe she’d be able to find some of the words that were lost to him. But, if she was, she wasn’t letting on.

He wanted to say that he was sorry, but those two words seemed far too simple and inadequate for what he wanted to say. Jaskier seemed to think that all things could be summed up with words – put into pretty ballads that explained everything humans could ever hope to express. Maybe, for someone so clearly talented with words, that was true. Unfortunately, despite being talented with many things, words were not one of them.

And besides, no words could never repair the damage that he had done. How could they? Two fucking words that meant absolutely nothing, words that could not possibly convey the way that he felt in this moment, or in any moment that he’d thought of the raven-haired beauty since he last saw her.

“I… Hurt you, very badly.” He finally settled on the simplest thing he could think of – just a statement of fact.

He had understood, in the time since he’d seen her last, how badly he had hurt her. He’d replayed those awful things that he’d said countless times; he’d relived the scene in countless nightmares. Funny – in his long life, he'd faced off against monsters so terrifying than most could not even imagine – yet the one thing that stuck in his head, the one thing he had nightmares about, were those violet eyes looking at him one last time. 

_“Though the Witcher does not want to lose her, he will.”_

_“He already has.”_

Yennefer, who had not moved since their conversation began, continued to stare off into the distance. Geralt couldn’t bring himself to look up to see exactly what she was looking at, but he supposed it didn’t much matter. The point was clear enough – she was looking off at something else so that she did not have to look at him. In any case, he couldn’t blame her.

“An astute observation,” she finally said, crossing her arms over her chest and turning slowly, extremely slowly, to look at him. Her violet eyes did not burn with the same rage and passion as they had the night before, when she’d stormed down the road after Ciri, but it was equally as piercing. He knew that look; he knew those mannerisms. As much as she was an enigma to him, there were certain things that he had figured out – one being the way that she crossed her arms across her chest, pressed her beautiful lips together in a light line, and narrowed those violet eyes to keep people away.

_To keep people who have hurt her way._

“Out of all the things I regret, I regret that day the most,” Geralt continues speaking, facts mixed with feelings spilling form his mouth. As usual, when she was around, he said too much – spoke of things that he never said to anyone else; things that he could never speak of to anyone else.

He could have imagined it, but he could swear he saw that slight upturn of her lips, the delicate crease that appeared when she did so. It was so fleeting, he immediately doubted that he’d seen it at all. “Are you talking about what happened before or after heroically protecting that dragon?”

“Yen.” Geralt’s eyes are pleading once more. He needed to tell her how he felt, but he didn’t have the words. Or rather, he had the words, but those words were not enough. They could never be enough. Perhaps he’d never be enough for her. How could he be?

He was surprised that she turned toward him and took several steps toward him, black dress billowing in the soft wind. For the first time since she’d agreed to take a walk with him, her eyes fixed on his.

“You once asked me what I dreamed about,” he finally says, once it become clear that she had no intention of speaking. She cocked her head, looking up at him with some interest. At least he knew she was listening. An opportunity to fuck up was a lesser evil than not being able to speak at all.

“I’ve read your thoughts in your sleep,” she says matter-of-factly, pulling at a leaf that had found its way into her wild curls, “I know what you dream about.”

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Geralt found himself once again feeling that mix of frustration and love -knowing that the two probably could not be separated. “Last I checked, you haven’t been around to do that recently,” he pointed out. “Whatever I used to dream about, now the only thing I dream about is that day.” The look on the Witcher’s face betrays exactly what day he was speaking about. There was really nothing else that he could be speaking about.

“Every fucking night, Yen,” he says, exasperated, “ _Every fucking night_ I dream about those things that I said.” His face, usually hard as stone and unreadable, is red with shame. “I relive that moment constantly,” he continued, speaking fast, stumbling over words in a way very uncharacteristic of the White Wolf. “And every time I wake up, I feel exactly what I felt watching you walk away.”

Yennefer shifted her weight, one hip sticking out at an angle, but she did not uncross her arms. He didn’t blame her. After what he’d said and done, he knew he did not deserve her trust. Why should she let him in when all he had done was hurt her?

He steps forward, closing some of the space between them, but not too much. They stood like two opposite ends of a magnet, pushing away form each other but trying to come together all the same. “I cannot ask you to forgive me,” he says, for the first-time breaking eye contact and looking down at his feet. “What I said was unforgivable.” He looks back up at her. “But I have to tell you how sorry I am.”

There is a space of three heartbeats, much longer than three ordinary heartbeats, and it felt like an eternity. Something unidentifiable flashes in Yen’s eyes in the span of those three heart beats. And then, she stepped forward.

“I’m so honored, to haunt your nightmares.” Her tone is also unreadable – it could be flirtatious, but it could also be the precursor for a row. As usual, he could not tell which. “It’s what I’ve always dreamed of.”

Despite that small part of him that wanted to turn and run; that part of him that knew that this could never end well and knew better than to involve himself any further than he already was, he stood his ground, even as Yennefer uncrossed her arms dramatically.

“Come on, Yen,” Geralt said with a groan, “You know that isn’t what I mean!”

“And how am I to know what you mean?” Yennefer asked, waving one arm wildly, though he could still see that shaky nervousness. “How, Geralt?” There is a wildness in her voice, in her movements. Geralt watched, wishing that he could reach out, embrace her. Or, at the very least, make her pain go away.

_‘The pain that is all my fault.’_

“Oh, come on, Geralt!” She was shouting now, advancing toward him. “Are you really so full of yourself you think that this is all your fault?” She gestured wildly, letting the long sleeves of her dress remain pushed up just enough that he could see the familiar scars along her wrists.

Without thinking, he took another step forward, reducing the already small distance between them, and grabbing hold of one of her wrists with his hand. He didn’t pull her towards him; nor embrace her. He just stood like that for a moment, looking down at her trembling hand in his palm. He knew she was angry and hurt, and he just wanted there to be some way he could change things; make things up to her. If he could turn back time and stop all of those words from coming out of his mouth, he would have. But there was no elixir for that.

“Yen.” He brushed her wrist with the pad of his thumb, unable to ignore that electric feeling that coursed through his veins every time he touched her. “You have to understand; I was so worried about you! I was scared. Hell, I _am_ scared. What if one of those plots of yours would have gotten you killed?” he asked, voice tinged with desperation. “I can’t lose you. Not forever. Not like that.”

Yennefer paused for a moment, drawing in a breath. “And do you think its any different for _me_?” she asked, pulling her arm from his grasp. “You run off, chasing monsters!” She is breathing heavy now, looking like she might strike him or embrace him with equal ferocity. “Do you ever stop and think what it’s like?” she asked, one hand, balled in a fist, landing on his chest. It was a forceful but not hard blow. More than anything, it was desperate, as if she were grabbing at a ghost that might just slip through her fingers.

Her other arm gestured wildly off into the distance, pointing to nothing in particular, just the vast expanse of field and trees surrounding them. “Do you ever stop and think what it’s like, waiting for you to return? Hearing nothing for days and wondering if you might be _dead_?” she ranted. “You are not as invincible as you think you are, Witcher!”

Her voice broke on that last word, and tears formed in her eyes. But of course, she would not let them fall. “You think you cannot bear the thought of losing me, while you’re off chasing strigas and werewolves and whatever the hell else someone will give you coin for!” Both hands where on his chest now, one grabbing desperately at his shirt. “I cannot bear the thought of losing you, ok?”

Her admission made his chest tighten; made it impossible to hold off any longer. Without saying a word, he advanced, pushing her back and pinning her against the tree she’d been so interested in. “Yennefer,” he pleaded, “You will never lose… I will never leave you.” It was a promise, and he meant every word.

Out of all of the things he thought he would say to her in this moment, he said none of them. He said, instead, what was running through his mind at that very moment.

“You are the only treasure worth dying over.”

The moment the words left his mouth, the Witcher and the Sorceress melted into one another, lips crashing together in a bruising kiss full of words left unspoken and feelings running too deep for words to ever describe. The world disappeared as if it were nothing, and the only thing in it was the two of them, desperately clinging to each other, devouring each other, and drinking in all of the lost moments; making up for all of the lost time.

*

_To be continued._


	2. Echoes of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Geralt x Yennefer
> 
> **Warning(s):** Implied smut, ok a little smut.  
>  **Word Count:** 1,089  
>  **Summary:** I’m just gonna say it **\- t** here is a  
> startling lack of Geralt x Yen fics out there. This is a collection of oneshots  
> set during the book, _Time of Contempt_ , along with some time-jumping  
> backwards. It mostly follows the plotlines of the book, but with scenes more  
> fleshed out, with some of the flashbacks being my own stories of the two to  
> fill in long gaps in their story. That being said **spoilers for _The Last  
> _**  
>  Wish, Time of Contempt as well as Season 1 of the Netflix show.

[Part I](https://aenwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/post/190011948278/treasure-worth-dying-for-geralt-x-yennefer-pt)

****

* * *

_this moment feels like an echo / we’ve done this dance a  
thousand times._  
__

All Time Low // Dark Side of Your Room __

* * *

“Yennefer...” the Witcher said, quietly but edged with the kind of painful desperation that only love can create. 

He was inside her, moving unhurriedly despite the intensity of the situation. It felt like an eternity since they had been together like this, and neither of them wanted to let the moment pass too quickly. 

Geralt looked into her violet eyes as he thrust into her the way that she liked. The sorceress seemed surprised that he remembered exactly how to make her completely melt beneath him – but how could he forget? He’d known from the first moment that they had loved each other that he would never feel the same way about anyone else. 

She moaned softly, not taking her eyes from his. 

“Yen,” he breathed, burying his face in the crook of her neck and breathing in her scent. 

Her hand tangled in his long hair, clutching him to her as he inevitably began quickening his pace. “I remember the first time you called me that,” she breathed into his ear. 

He remembered, too. 

* * *

_“Yennefer…” Geralt rasped, barely able to control himself as he pushed in and out of her, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “Yen.”_

_“Yen,” said the sorceress, as if trying out how it sounded, “No one has ever called me that.”_

_Her nails dug into his back, leaving marks and she arched up into him, wanting every inch of her to be touching him._

_Silence stretches for only a fraction of a moment, punctured only by soft pants and moans and the occasional sound of rubble settling around them – though they were not paying attention to that._

_“Say it again,” she commanded, though it sounded more like a plea._

_“Yen.”_

_She came undone and he followed quickly after, leaving them both breathing heavily and utterly exhausted._

* * *

“Geralt,” Yen nearly screamed his name as his pace continued to increase, shaking the bed beneath them. There were no thoughts going through her head that were not of Geralt. 

“Yen,” the Witcher echoed, equally desperate, as he slipped a hand between them, wanting to watch her writhe beneath him, lost in pleasure. 

There was silence for a moment, save for sharp breaths and escaped moans, and then she wailed, lost in her release, Geralt following immediately behind her. 

For a while, the two of them just lay next to each other in silence. Geralt did not know what to say, or if there was even anything to say. There didn’t seem to be enough words in the Common Tongue or Elder Speech to express what he was feeling, to express the way he felt complete now that she was here next to him, leaving his sheets smelling of lilac and gooseberries. 

Finally, though, he spoke. “Forgive me, Yen. Please forgive me.” 

Her expression was serious as she rolled over, snuggling into his chest, “I already have.” 

The Witcher did not respond, instead wrapping his arms around her, holding her close as if she were going to disappear and slip through his fingertips. He did not deserve her forgiveness after all of the things he had done and failed to do, but he would take it. He needed it. He needed her. 

He would never leave her – not ever again – the way he had left her that morning. 

* * *

_The Witcher woke early, during the blurry half-light of the false dawn. The sky momentarily moonless but still lit by the moon and sunless but still lit by sun—both full and empty at the same time—unbalanced. The Witcher felt much the same way._

_That scent. Lilac and gooseberries. It filled his head in the most pleasant way, but then it is too much, and it makes his head ache. No, not really—the thoughts racing through his head were probably what is causing that problem. He wants to breathe in that scent forever._

_He looked over at her, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen; the most terrifying thing he had ever seen. One of Jaskier’s saying came to his mind—true beauty is terrifying, or something along those lines._

_Truth be told, he was not terrified of her beauty. He was terrified of the feeling in his chest, like suddenly his heart and lungs didn’t quite fit anymore. He was terrified of the flutter in his stomach, a most unusual sensation he had only felt a few times before, and never so intensely. Jaskier probably had a line for that too, about love and beauty and how they are the same thing and how they are terrifying and gods was he terrified, so terrified he couldn’t breathe right and--_

_It took all of his willpower to force his heart to slow, to force his breathing to fill his lungs naturally._

_She thinks I’ve condemned myself to her. But it is worse—I've condemned her to me._

_He knew that he was not good enough for her; could never be good enough for her. He wasn’t particularly suited to anyone. His job was far too dangerous, his life was far to chaotic. How could he drag someone into that?_

_Now he’s messed with fate not once, but twice. Two people now tied to him, and for the worse. The child in Cintra, who must be a toddler by now, and now Yennefer... Yen._

_At once, he knew what he must do. He could not stay—not when he’d condemned her to him; condemned her to a life of being forever bound to a Witcher who would surely one day make a wrong move and die. There was a reason Vessimir told them it was best not to love or be loved._

_He could not allow himself to need anyone, and he certainly couldn’t allow anyone to need him._

_So, he gathered his clothing as quietly as possible, slipping into the discarded pieces with deliberate silence. He would not be able to leave if she woke up and looked at him with those violet eyes._

_Still, he shot one more glance at Yennefer of Vengerberg before he slipped silently from the room, leaving her in the middle of the ruined house, alone._

* * *

In the morning, when the Witcher once again awoke early, during false dawn, he simply looked over at her sleeping form. 

Instead of running, instead of leaving her there alone, he only smiled and pulled her closer, letting sleep wash over him like the scent of lilac and gooseberries. 

* * *

_To be continued._


End file.
